


A Smart-Arse Consulting Detective Is For Life, Not Just For Christmas

by Berty



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Cold Weather, Dancing, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Grumpy John Watson, M/M, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Sharing Body Heat, The Belstaff - Freeform, There was NO bed, Trapped, Winter, mention of mary morstan - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:55:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22055158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berty/pseuds/Berty
Summary: So here they sit. Glaring at each other. Locked in an unheated, block-built tack room on a remote farm in Suffolk.With no mobile coverage.On Christmas Eve.Sherlock's definitely NOT on the 'nice' list this year.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 66
Kudos: 432





	A Smart-Arse Consulting Detective Is For Life, Not Just For Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Консультирующий детектив-всезнайка - на всю жизнь, а не только на Рождество](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22289674) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> With literally four hours to spare, this is only the third thing I have finished this year. I hope 2020 will be kinder with writing time. And I know Christmas was last week, but you can never have too much Christmas Fluff, right?

It’s been a bit of a not good week, Sherlock reflects. One can tell how not good it has been by the frequency of John’s profanities (up 62% on average) and by the number of cups of tea Sherlock has been made (down 38% despite his hopeful glances at the kettle and heartfelt sighs). 

Not only has John’s jumper collection been dramatically impacted by the unanticipated moth hatching incident but there has also been a small, practically insignificant chemical spill on John’s chair, a flood in the bathroom (as part of the effort to rectify the aforementioned spill which led to the barely noteworthy fire) and a regrettable mislabeling situation in which John’s prepared pasta salad lunch for his day at the surgery on Tuesday was replaced with a fascinating experiment on the effect of concentrated sodium chloride on human and porcine intestinal material. While some of these occurrences might conceivably have been, in part, due to Sherlock’s quest for knowledge, (and seriously, no one could have predicted that John would eat without looking to see what was on his fork) he feels that he has been unjustly thrust into the role of the villain in this catalogue of unfortunate happenings. Clearly he had not intended for any of these contentious events to occur, but John seems to believe that Sherlock goes out looking for trouble at every opportunity and does not hesitate to attribute all and any inopportune events to Sherlock’s influence.

It is profoundly unfair.

Take this evening, for example. While it may, technically, be Sherlock whose breakthrough in the composition of the inclusions in the soil samples left by the tyres of the getaway vehicle which has brought them to this location in time to find the miscreant and his ill-gotten gains (in this case frozen semen from several highly regarded thoroughbred horses), John can surely not apportion blame whereby they were seen, trapped and neatly locked in an outbuilding simply because Sherlock declined to wait while John checked out said outbuilding instead of keeping watch as requested when it seemed quite obvious that the entire farm was deserted. 

Admittedly, with hindsight, that had been a small miscalculation but hardly the work of an evil mastermind bent on making John’s day as miserable as possible, as he claims. Repeatedly. With increasing volume. 

So here they sit. Glaring at each other. Locked in an unheated, block-built tack room on a remote farm in Suffolk. 

With no mobile coverage. 

On Christmas Eve. 

Without admitting any culpability, Sherlock may be beginning to see why John is less than pleased. With Christmas Day falling on a Friday this year, it could be some time before anyone comes close enough to the abandoned farm to hear their shouts. To compound this, Mrs Hudson is in Bognor visiting friends for the season, Mycroft is in Switzerland brokering questionable and easily deniable alliances and Lestrade is taking a week’s leave (to go skiing, of all things) - these three people being those most likely to notice their ongoing absence. He doesn’t fear that their lives are in danger, but things could certainly become uncomfortable quite quickly. 

With a sigh, John rises and resumes his search for some service on his phone. He criss-crosses the small room, phone raised above his head, watching the display for even a flicker of signal. He is predictably unsuccessful, this being the seventh time he has repeated the exercise in the last two hours. 

Sherlock has already calculated the chances of them being rescued this evening, pondered every item in the room as a means to effect an escape and vetoed John’s idea of discharging his gun in the hope of attracting attention - in an area this rural and with so much agriculture, gunshots are commonplace, and unlikely to be investigated. 

John sits again, turning off his mobile and raising an eyebrow in Sherlock’s direction.

“Why would anyone need to fortify a bloody stable?” He glares at the steel bars on the two tiny, high windows, as if they were put there specifically to irk him.

Sherlock decides that being as diplomatic as possible is the better part of valour and explains in a mild tone. “It’s where they kept the saddles and bridles. They can be quite expensive and there’s a brisk trade in stolen equestrian equipment. I suppose it made sense to safeguard their tack with the area being so isolated.”

This doesn’t seem to mollify the irritated army doctor in the least.

“At least it’s dry - they’ve insulated it at some point. Mold is a killer on leather,” Sherlock notes conversationally, trying for a positive note, but John merely rolls his eyes and crosses his arms across his chest. 

The business was clearly a professional concern. There are rows of hooks for storing bridles, saddle racks, and shelves built against one end of the room. Anything of any value has gone but there’s a sink in the corner, a couple of cheap low stools, some chipped mugs and a dirty whiteboard on the wall. While not ideal, their plight could have been much worse. There’s even water still connected and electricity to power the bare, flickering bulb overhead which balefully provides insufficient light to be any kind of use.

“We’re not in any immediate danger, John. Whilst a very able thief, Conway clearly had no stomach for violence or else we would have been in a much stickier situation. I suspect he’s well on his way to the life of a moderately rich exiled criminal by now. Someone will be along eventually, dog walkers or what have you. This is simply a somewhat uncomfortable inconvenience.”

“But it’s Christmas Eve!” John blurts, slumping back against the wall. “I had a date! I should be sipping wine and being charming and choosing dessert right now!”

“Ah, yes, the bilingual veterinarian from Cheam,” Sherlock nods and marks the way John’s head jerks up. It’s not much of a score but it does something to assuage his distaste over John’s latest ‘friend’. “Well I can’t do much about the crème brûlée or the house white, but feel free to be charming if it will help.”

Sherlock has had quite enough of John’s tales of thwarted appetites and decides to cede the field of combat.

John scowls. “How do you know about…. Never mind. Of course you know,” he says with something approaching disgust. “I don’t know why I even bother to… Hey! What are you doing?”

Sherlock cracks open an eye and regards his friend. “I would have thought that would be immediately apparent, you having seen me do this many times before.”

“Oh, no! No, no, no!” John jumps up, the stool’s feet scraping in his haste. He stalks across to where Sherlock is sitting cross-legged on the cold, concrete floor, his hands pressed together and balanced against his lower lip. 

“If I have to spend Christmas Eve in a freezing cold, horse stinking stable, then you do too. You can’t just piss off to your mind palace and leave me here on my own.” John grabs his wrist and pulls until Sherlock relents with poor grace and stands.

“But I have already noted any pertinent data and there is very little else of interest to me here. My time can be spent more profitably by…”

John frowns at him and purses his lips in a familiar frustrated tell. “Well cheers for that vote of confidence, Sherlock, but I’m sorry; that’s not going to happen.”

“But this is tedious!” Sherlock explains, pretty succinctly, he thinks.

“Yep,” John agrees with a glare and presses Sherlock down onto one of the stools. “I’m afraid our entertainment opportunities extend to each other and as piss poor as that is, it’s all we have. So you will sit there and you will keep me company until such times as we are rescued or until we try to get some kip. Okay?”

Sherlock sighs dramatically and casts a venomous glare at John which he catches and narrows his eyes at. “Fine,” Sherlock spits. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Whatever you like,” John invites although he hasn’t shown much interest in anything Sherlock has observed about the case up to now. He decides to stick with a tried and tested topic. He takes a breath to begin at the beginning and is rudely interrupted by the short, disgruntled blogger.

“Not sodding ash,” John demands. 

Sherlock deflates somewhat; if not ash, then presumably molds, spores, muscle tissue decomposition rates, the effect of acidic soils on human bone and anything of that ilk are also inadvisable. He briefly considers statistics on the liklihood of becoming a murder victim in the UK based on age, wealth, month of birth and, interestingly, height but the dangerous glint in John’s eye disuades him. Somewhat perplexed, he casts around for another topic of equal interest. This, unfortunately, takes longer than John seems prepared to wait.

“Christ,” John mutters and throws himself back down on his stool as Sherlock blinks at him. “Christmas bloody Eve! I should be sharing a bottle of half-decent bubbly with a beautiful woman by now. She’d be laughing at my jokes and I’d be listening to some of her work stories.”

“Sounds ghastly,” Sherlock says feeling what John refers to as an epic strop coming on. John may be able to spend long hours letting his mediocre mind idle through hours of inactivity, but Sherlock can’t, particularly if he has to listen to John extol the virtues of boring veterinarians from south London’s least interesting suburb.

“Not as ghastly as this,” John returns waving a hand at their current accommodations and Sherlock doesn’t miss that his gesture encompasses Sherlock himself. “I’d be tucking into turkey and all the trimmings - goose fat roast potatoes, pigs-in-blankets, Christmas Pudding and brandy butter...” 

John’s face is beatific and his eyes drift shut as he imagines the festive spread. He hums in appreciation, a low, heartfelt sound, and Sherlock’s neck prickles as a slight sweat breaks out under his collar. Not for the first time Sherlock wonders how John might look and sound  _ in flagrante  _ and how close this expression of imagined bliss is to the real thing. For an insane moment he considers reaching out to touch the fragile skin of John’s eyelids, rubbing a thumb along the stubble already forming on his jaw and leaning in to cover John’s parted lips with his own.

Right on cue, John’s stomach growls quite alarmingly and he groans quietly as his vision fades. He opens his eyes and regards Sherlock who has to turn his face away to quickly school his features into something less openly longing. 

“Instead I’m locked in here, freezing and fucking hungry with the Git Who Stole Christmas!” John grumbles kicking at the leg of his stool in a show of petulance. 

“You sound more excited about the menu than your dinner companion,” Sherlock observes, his voice a little rough. He clears his throat and contents himself with a quick glance at John; it wouldn’t do to look too interested in his response. 

John opens his mouth to argue but after a moment shrugs instead. “Sian is perfectly lovely. Smart and fun to spend time with.”

Suppressing a thrill of triumph, Sherlock prompts, “But?”

Again John shrugs. “We have a good time together, but I’m not looking for anything long term. She’s not…” he trails off.

Sherlock stares at his knees and strains his ears for John’s voice, his breathing, his fidgeting - anything to give him an impression of where John is going with this conversation. 

Since Sherlock’s been back John has dated a few women but none of them have been serious, usually lasting for no more than a couple of dinners. At first he thought this was down the the Mary disaster; Sherlock had used the couple of days after their explosive reconciliation at the Landmark to dig deep enough to discover exactly who ‘Mary Morstan’ was and what her reasons were for accepting a proposal from a man she’d been dating for barely three months - even a man as exceptional as John Watson. At the time Sherlock had feared that his recount of this information would mark the ultimate messy demise of his and John’s friendship if his two year absence hadn’t already achieved that. And John had been furious, then embarrassed and guilty and then depressed. He had taken his time to work through the hurt and anger and mistrust that he had felt for Sherlock but slowly they had found their old rhythm, he’d moved back in to 221B and their friendship, although cracked, had held. 

Thoughts of John had been the thing that had kept Sherlock sane and fighting during those lost years. It had taken Sherlock a long time to understand what it was about his flatmate that had him so enthralled and by the time he had, he’d been too deeply tangled in Moriarty’s web to act upon it. Instead he had created elaborate scenarios for his return; confessions, seductions and sweet reunions. Such musings had given him an incentive to go on in his deconstruction of Moriarty’s empire always moving forward, closer to returning to London and John with each threat eliminated.

Of course reality had intruded the second he’d laid eyes upon a nervous John clutching a small velvet box.

John sighs and Sherlock does his best not to flinch. “She’s not what I want any more.”

Frowning, Sherlock ponders John’s choice of words but fails to find clarity. “But Christmas Eve is a significant event. You must think quite highly of her to suggest such a culturally significant day for your date.”

“No, not particularly. She asked actually. I wasn’t doing anything else. I thought it would keep me from sitting at home and counting the ways in which I am a sad bastard, while waiting for you to come in from wherever you’d been.”

“But instead you came along too.”

“Yeah, it hasn’t turned out exactly as planned, has it? Shame, it was a nice restaurant, too, with a live band. I was looking forward to a turn or two around the dancefloor.”

Sherlock gets up abruptly and stalks over to the sink. He runs the tap and finds the least dusty mug, giving it a quick rinse before filling it. He takes a sip, then a deeper swallow once he finds the water untainted. Filling the mug again, Sherlock returns to John and holds it out to him.

John’s eyebrows dip, a little confused smile on his lips. 

“I think sir will find this vintage especially to his liking. It has a crisp, mineral flavour and is perfectly chilled.”

John snorts . “I’m glad the French accent hasn’t made a reappearance.” He takes the mug, raising it in an ironic toast to Sherlock before drinking.

“If sir will permit, it pairs particularly well with…” Sherlock rummages in the inside pocket of his coat and pulls out one of Lestrade’s badges, two of Mycroft’s credit cards, some string, a laser pointer and...ah, yes! “... Polos and Fruit Pastilles,” he reads.

John grins at him. “Who did you nick those from?”

“Does it matter? Our need is more pressing,” Sherlock insists, holding out both packets to John who nods and helps himself to a couple of Polos.

Sherlock pockets the other sweets and watches John pop the mints in his mouth. He looks up at Sherlock, smudges of dust on his cheek and in his hair, a soft, amused smile on his face, waiting for Sherlock’s next move.

An idea pricks at Sherlock’s awareness and is realised in an instant. He really shouldn’t - it’s too overt and it skirts dangerously close to blatant. But now he’s thought of it, he can’t stop himself from wanting it, and perhaps their difficult circumstances and the significant date might play into his hands. Perhaps John will allow him this whimsy as a way to pass some time and to ease their cold, cramping muscles. He can easily laugh it off as festive high spirits if he needs to.

He holds out a hand and John instinctively moves to take it even before Sherlock has time to say, “May I have this dance?”

John blinks a few times, his eyebrows climbing comically far up his forehead. He laughs but allows himself to be pulled to standing. “I’d have let you slope off to your mind palace if I’d known you were this bored!”

Suddenly chest to chest, Sherlock almost loses his nerve. This close, even John may be able to see the naked want on Sherlock’s face no matter how hard he tries to cover it. But John’s cold right hand is sliding beneath the Belstaff and circling around Sherlock’s waist, making him shiver at the contact with his warm skin. John murmurs an apology even as he spreads a greedy palm and Sherlock is grateful for the excuse of the shock because his body is singing Glorias in response to John’s touch, so bright and heady, he feels he might be vibrating with it. 

John adjusts the grip of their hands and looks up at Sherlock expectantly. His eyes are clear and amused and fond, and Sherlock is utterly undone. 

He clears his throat and musters the most casual tone he can manage. “I asked you, doesn’t that mean I should lead?”

“Not a chance,” John replies quickly and steps forward, forcing Sherlock to follow his unspoken instructions.

They must look ridiculous, dancing in their coats around a dusty, deserted shed with the world’s most unflattering light making brassy tones in John’s hair and leaching all colour from Sherlock’s skin. Despite their height difference, John makes a pretty good showing of it. His style is more functional than Sherlock is used to, but he marches them around the room, counting threes under his breath, turning them sharply and cleanly.

John maintains eye contact when he’s not looking at their feet and smiles softly each time their gazes catch. Sherlock breathes him in, familiar but exciting, weary but invigorating.Without conscious thought, Sherlock begins to hum as they move and John’s stance gentles, his steps smooth and their tempo slows until Sherlock could almost believe that this was real. 

The rough floor scrapes beneath their shoes, and the exercise in conjunction with the cold air makes their cheeks flush. John’s arms are strong and safe, and Sherlock had no idea anything this simple could be this good. Despite the onslaught of data, Sherlock doesn’t seek to deduce John’s mood or his thoughts on the odd behaviour; instead he  _ experiences _ , cataloguing how their movement and intimacy are making the hair on his arms rise, how his breathing is uneven and noting all the ways in which having John’s body so close is adding to his own growing feelings of wellbeing and happiness.

“You didn’t think I could dance, did you?” John asks, leaning in a little as if sharing a confidence, and for one split second Sherlock’s heart stutters when he imagines that John might have been moving in for a kiss.

He’d been right; this was a terrible idea. He knows now he’ll spend the rest of his life trying to resist the temptation to revisit this brief moment when he so nearly has it all. It will be a burning point of brilliance and a bruising ache at the same time, for always. Yet he still can’t find it in himself to regret it or stop himself from indulging further.

“I couldn’t be certain. Insufficient data. One should never hypothesise without evidence, John. Although I have been encouraged by your shimmying along to the radio when you cook breakfast at the weekends.” 

“Ah,” John grins, delightfully embarrassed. “Seen that have you? Thought you were thinking deep thoughts in your mind palace.” 

“Hard to focus when you… what was it? ‘Built this city on rock and roll?’”

John snorts and buries his deliciously pink face in Sherlock’s shoulder to compose himself. He groans a little in mortification. “It’s a classic, Sherlock. You don’t ignore the classics.”

“Duly noted, “ Sherlock nods and realises that their feet have stilled and now they are just swaying, still wound around each other. Their eyes catch again, expressions unguarded as their banter dissipates on the cold air. 

John licks his lips, their faces very close together and for a moment his gaze drops to Sherlock’s mouth. Then he smiles quickly, a brittle, sad thing, there and gone in a blink. He steps back, his hand lingering in Sherlock’s, the last point of contact before they part. His shoulders hunch and he crosses his arms, palms jammed into his armpits.

The cold seems to have intensified in the few minutes that they danced together. There is a chill all down the front of Sherlock’s body where John had been pressed to him and the print of his cold hand feels branded into Sherlock’s skin beneath his coat where it had rested at the back of his waist. 

John shivers as if reading Sherlock’s mind. He rubs his hands together theatrically. “Clear sky out there. I expect there will be a frost tonight.”

“I think there already is,” Sherlock agrees, pointing to the window where spiky, icy patterns are already growing across the window glass.

“It’s going to be uncomfortable if we’re here all night.” John eyes the concrete floor without enthusiasm.

“I think the chances of anyone hearing us tonight are remote, John. But there were livestock in the fields as we were coming up the track which means that someone will be out to feed and water them, even on Christmas Day.”

“Okay, well I guess we can tough it out for one night.”

They fall silent again. Uncharacteristically awkward, they stand no further than an arm’s length apart. Sherlock slips his hands into his pockets. John sniffs and glances around the room glumly. Their eyes catch once, twice, three times and they exchange self-conscious smiles. 

He’s not imagining this, Sherlock hopes, nor misinterpreting nor any other kind of self deception. John could be embarrassed about how intimate their dancing became but he isn’t seeking to put any distance between them now which would be the quickest way to shut down any misunderstandings. Neither of them is comfortable, yet they are sharing the same space and the same energy in order to… what? Provoke some reaction? Advance the situation in some way? Gain some clarity on the other’s thoughts?

And now it’s taking too long. John’s body language begins to close down, his head drops and his shoulders fall a little. He presses his lips together, preparing to speak, to say something to bring this tension to a friendly, unthreatening close.

They’ve done this before. Sherlock knows how rare and precious these moments are. He cannot let this one pass; not again. 

This is a dance as old as their acquaintance. They step up through high spirits or residual excitement or an exchange of mutual sentiments, but neither has the certainty within them to push it further; to see what this could become. For fear that they have it wrong. For fear of being rejected. For fear of losing more than face. 

A single bell from a distant church begins to ring, bright and shimmering on the icy air, calling the devout to midnight mass with its lonely note. 

“I’m sorry about your date,” Sherlock offers before John can break the spell completely. “I shouldn’t have asked for your help on such short notice. Particularly on such a straightforward case. I’m sure if you explain to your date that I insisted, you…”

Platitudes. Sherlock hopes Mycroft never finds out, but the situation seems to call for them.

“I like coming on cases with you, Sherlock. Even the straightforward ones.” The corner of John’s mouth twitches up in an almost-smile but he doesn’t look up.

  
  


But John is shaking his head. “As I said, she’s nice, but not what I’m looking for now. I knew that already when I accepted her invitation.”

“So why accept at all?” Sherlock is surprised by his own bluntness and John blinks once or twice too. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Habit? Gratitude? To mark the turning of another year? Just to have a little fun?” He shrugs.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” Sherlock tells him.

John looks up at that. “You were going to spend the night in your mind palace and leave me again.”

Ahh, ‘again’. That was very telling. Sherlock has clearly not been paying attention. Could it be that John craves Sherlock’s attention in a similar way to how Sherlock craves John’s? Although his choice of the word ‘leave’ is perhaps even more interesting, if uncomfortable.

John shivers then, a full body shudder. 

The bell has fallen silent and the only sound to be heard is the distant screech of a Barn Owl.

Sherlock begins to slip out of his coat, but John stops him with a hand to his sleeve. 

“What are you doing?”

“You’re cold,” Sherlock explains. “My coat is far superior to yours in thermal insulation capabilities.”

“But then you’ll freeze,” John grumbles, tugging the Belstaff back onto Sherlock’s shoulders. 

“I have trained myself to endure low temperatures without ill effects, John. It makes sense for you to take…”

“I’ll share it with you,” John suggests.

Sherlock stares for several heartbeats too long judging by the nervous flex of John’s left hand and the way his cheeks and throat have flooded crimson again .

With a short nod, Sherlock decides and turns to the shelves, far enough from the dreadful light that they are fully shadowed. He pulls a few boxes aside and retrieves a pile of folded horse blankets he noticed earlier. They have clearly seen better days but he shakes them out, careful to keep the dust and dead spiders away from John, then lays two of them on the floor against the wall. He gestures for John to sit and slips out of his coat.

John does the same, pulling off the serviceable black jacket he favours. Sherlock moves to object, but John sits down and puts it against the wall at his back, giving them some vestige of insulation against the brickwork.

John’s eyes are wide and a little wild when Sherlock takes his place close beside him and drapes the Belstaff over them. For a moment Sherlock thinks John might object, but then he draws in a deep breath and relaxes somewhat, moving closer still and tugging his jacket until he is happy they are both gaining some benefit from it. 

When John finally stills, Sherlock spreads the final moth-eaten horse rug across their feet and legs. They sit shoulder to shoulder until, daring and hoping that his luck will hold out one more time, Sherlock lifts his arm and awkwardly, wordlessly invites John beneath it. John pauses but accepts the gesture all the same after an unnaturally long moment. He eases himself further across until he is effectively cuddled up against Sherlock’s side.

“The coat will cover more of us this way,” Sherlock says, clearing his throat and talking quietly as if afraid he might spook the man pressed against him.

They sit in tense stillness. Sherlock thinks he might be having some sort of heart episode as it seems to be beating extremely irregularly and so loudly that John cannot miss it rattling around in his chest. And surely John’s shoulders cannot get any more rigid that they are - it must be incredibly uncomfortable.

The light bulb flickers and recovers, then with a high-pitched  _ ping _ , it gives up, plunging them into darkness.

Unbelievably, John’s shoulders tense further and Sherlock wants to knock his own head against the wall in frustration. 

“For god’s sake!” Sherlock groans aloud.

For a long moment, no one so much as breathes. Then John begins to shake, slight trembles that trip down his back. He sucks in a deep breath and they intensify, his shoulders shudder and his ribs heave. Sherlock is about to ask him if he is quite well when John lets out the most inelegant, resounding snort and his whole body convulses, curling into itself as John struggles with the hysteria which seems to have overtaken him. 

“I swear to god, you could not make up the shit that happens to us!” he gasps and falls into another round of heaving giggles.

Sherlock grins and gives in to a chuckle, knowing that John can’t see him in the darkness that cocoons them now. He’s not incorrect; if Sherlock was the kind of man who believed in that sort of thing, he’d have ample evidence of how fate likes to throw the proverbial spanner in the works of their lives at any given opportunity.

Thankfully he is not.

“A minor if additional inconvenience, John.”

It takes John several minutes and numerous false starts to recover his composure completely. Finally he sighs and melts into Sherlock’s embrace, his head tucked beneath Sherlock’s chin. The fit of giggles has made him deliciously warm and and lax, the scent of John’s mirth combined with the sprawl of his body gives rise to a longing low in Sherlock’s abdomen. He is, not for the first time, grateful for his coat. Even if the starlight was enough for John to see by, the Belstaff would keep his inappropriate secrets for him.

“You know what? I take back everything I said,” John says quietly. “This is much better than dinner and dancing.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock intones.

John digs him in the ribs with a short but well aimed digit. “Git,” he says fondly. He lifts his head from Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock can make out the contentment in John’s smile and the affection in his eyes. And really, if there was ever a moment made for Sherlock to step up and act, this is it. 

Sherlock presses his lips against John’s before the universe can conspire against them again. 

John responds immediately. His lips part and he leans up into the kiss, angling his head to coax Sherlock’s mouth to open slightly too. Despite having been the instigator, Sherlock is happy to let John lead as it appears to be a specialism of his. John kisses with tenderness but thoroughness and attention to detail. His lips are slow and methodical and addictive - Sherlock is already unable to contemplate a minute without them. He covers every millimetre of Sherlock’s mouth with sweet brushes and gentle sucks and the issue that the Belstaff was concealing is becoming ever more problematic. 

John’s hands touch Sherlock’s face and hair with reverence, stroking and nudging him into increasingly more perfect connections and when his tongue slips out to run delicately but deliberately just inside his own bottom lip, Sherlock sighs a rumbling moan that makes John snuffle softly.

John’s hands become bolder in reaction to Sherlock’s obvious enjoyment. His palms fit to the shape of Sherlock’s body, stroking and learning and adoring. Skirting the now urgent situation in his trousers, John slides a hand down Sherlock’s thigh, his strong fingers hot through the wool fabric and his appreciation evident in the deepening kisses.

He groans when Sherlock’s breath hitches. “Finally!” he murmurs into Sherlock’s throat and all Sherlock can do is hold on and urge John to greater intimacy with his compliance. 

At that moment the bells from the nearby church begin to send peal after peal of joyful ringing across the crystalline air.

John barely even acknowledges them, but Sherlock thinks they are the most perfect expression of how he feels right now. Their gladness dances on the stillness, the notes tumble over each other in their exuberance so no one could fail to perceive their meaning.

Or perhaps he just needs to remember to keep breathing, even though it is utterly dull in comparison to kissing John.

When John finally pulls back, Sherlock follows him, chasing his mouth with poorly aimed kisses. He can feel John’s lips curve up into a smile as he catches and gentles them.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” John breathes between kisses.

“I’m beginning to see the appeal,” Sherlock murmurs, half-dazed with lust. His eyes have adjusted to the darkness now, and the stars are diamond sharp in the tiny corner of the sky he can see out of the window. Their light is only enough to outline John’s features, but Sherlock doesn’t need to be able to see him to understand the happiness that radiates off him. 

“So no chance of rescue tonight then?” John clarifies, running his fingers through the curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck - something Sherlock stores away for future reference. 

“Very unlikely, “ Sherlock confirms allowing John to ease him back until he is lying, more or less, on the blankets. “Is this where you make a suggestive comment about needing to cuddle to conserve body heat?”

John sniggers and thinks for a moment. “Well, I could but I thought I’d ask you if it was okay for me to make you come instead.” 

Rather unsubtly, John knees his way between Sherlock’s thighs, pulls the Belstaff and remaining blanket over them and lowers his body until the first touch of his hardness against Sherlock’s aching cock precipitates a strangled whimper from them both. 

“Yes please,” Sherlock breathes and shifts to accommodate John’s weight, twining his arms around John’s waist and pulling them more closely together, fitting their cock’s beside each other through their respective clothing. He steals kisses while John arranges them and their makeshift nest, tentatively rolling his hips to Sherlock’s immense gratification. 

“Please, John,” Sherlock asks. “I’ve wanted this for so long… wanted you.”

“Oh, love,” John says. “Me too. I never thought that you would… Oh, Sherlock.” 

John feels exquisite against him, hard and yielding in all the right places, and it could be well below freezing for all Sherlock cares; the heat between them is incandescent and all encompassing.

John grazes his teeth over Sherlock’s throat, nipping and pressing sucking, sweet kisses as he builds up a rhythm. Distantly, Sherlock adds a neck kink to John’s hair kink, for further investigation at some undetermined future time, but in honesty it’s becoming impossible to think of anything but John’s scent, and his heat and his hardness and how all these things are pushing Sherlock closer and closer to completion. 

Tomorrow they will take their time, lock their bedroom door and explore one another, naked and in exhaustive detail. For now, though, this is exactly what they need. They may have taken the scenic route to finally arrive here, but the last thought as the perfect tension in Sherlock’s belly begins to unravel is that despite what John has said, he must have been a very,  _ very _ good boy this year. 

Fin


End file.
